Pledge of the Tree: The Tamari Banks Terroristic Thriller Series, #2

By David T LaDuke

Shocking Detroit with death and violence, radical Islamists continue their rampage in the second book of The Tamari Banks Thriller Series – Pledge of the Tree.

Taking a vow of death to complete what they believe is a divine mission ushering in a sacred, apocalyptic leader, the vicious and elusive terrorist group Bayát-ash-Shajarah is determined to deal a massive blow to the city.

Join Agent Banks and the Office of Internal Security (OIS) team as they fight against time to stop the carnage and destruction…if they can.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LaDuke Communications
• Release date: Oct 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781732911550

David T LaDuke

Born 1967 in Detroit, Michigan I was raised by loving parents who impressed in the clay of my childhood a belief in God's existence. Around eight years old we moved farther north to a town called Hartland. I graduated from Hartland High School in 1986. In December of 1986 by God's Grace I became a follower of Jesus Christ. After a couple years at University of Michigan - Flint I moved to Pennsylvania and was married to my beautiful wife, Julie in 1989. Five children, multiple grandchildren, and various houses and pets later I now reside in Beaver County, Pennsylvania. Learn more about me at www.dladuke.com

Book preview

Chapter 1 

Warm breath hissed into a lazy swell of vapor rising into the late morning air. Slowly, with the aching deliberation of ceremony the right hand rotated the bolt and slid it forward. It clicked. An eye peered through the Leopold 10 x 42 lining up the sights. Vapor escaped again, its steady stream was measured, his pulse calm and even.

Another set of eyes scanned through powerful 1.25" eyepieces with a clear 45° view of the target.

Wind... checking a watch display, eight knots, from the east.

Yes, he quietly responded, comfortably settling his cheekbone against the stock. Slight adjustments were made to the scope. Nostrils flaring, he took in a long draft.

Twelve feet above the roof of Joe Louis Arena the two figures were invisible, hidden midst the scaffolding, dirty, grey boards, and green tarps moving slightly with the gentle breeze off the Detroit River.

A shell company, controlled by a subsidiary, in turn funded by an obscure, overseas investment firm had contracted with the city to demolish the aging Joe. There were many local and statewide companies that bid for the lucrative honor of tearing down the hallowed Redwings hockey hall, named for the famous boxer, but none so ardent as Fullsource Demolition Ltd. Somehow, they had made the best case, and generously floated enough cash into the right hands.

For whatever reason, by whatever excuse, the twenty-foot structure was joined and placed at the far north-east corner of the roof. Anyone familiar with the goings-on of demolition may have asked why. But that is the nature, the advantage of humble ubiquity – no one notices.

Both men had prayed, took tea, and climbed into their perch before the sun rose. As it was a long wait until the target arrived, the shooter slept, the spotter played Sudoku on his phone.

At eight forty-five a camera crew arrived outside the Renaissance Center buildings. They set up in the GM Plaza Promenade which was situated east between the central Marriott Tower and the river.

Just before nine, three black SUVs pulled up, spilling grim men and women in dark suits onto the pavement. They fanned out, executing a pre-planned sweep of the area – scanning windows, searching garbage cans, benches, and every corner.

FBI Special Agent Sofia Antez lifted her own pair of binoculars and tracked south following the water line. She looked past the Port Authority, across Hart Plaza, over the TCF Center and spotted a curious stack of pipe, board, nylon rope, and ratty tarpaulin at the corner of the Joe Louis roof closest to the water. Pulling the lenses away she squinted, shading her eyes. In the middle of the promenade she stood. There was a direct, albeit narrow line of sight.

That would be a tough shot, Antez said under her breath, but not impossible.

Raising the eyepiece again she studied the makeshift structure. Her gut clenched. It had been in the satellite photos taken at least a week and a half ago. She had brought it up in the meetings, but her boss assured her that it had been cleared from higher up the chain.

They said the demo company is clean, he told her. When she pressed, he firmly made it known he was instructed by the powers that be not to ruffle any of their feathers. She backed down. But her instincts told her something wasn’t right. Why wouldn’t anyone make a connection? Wasn’t now the perfect time to be a little more cautious, even paranoid?

Given the turmoil that had been rocking the city, the team had carefully studied all of the happenings in the area. Every agent was aware of the demolition work. They knew every ship on the water, the location of the Coast Guard vessels, and had examined the guest and employee lists at the hotel and surrounding towers.

In the normal course of affairs even a US Senator wouldn’t be given this much attention. But things had really heated up in Detroit, as well as concurrently in several major cities across the States. The recent explosion of violence, threats, robberies, and cyberattacks were all coordinated. Islamists, those who took Koranic teachings to a radical extreme, had laid a heavy blow on the government and people of this city. Now, no agency was taking chances. The FBI, working together with Homeland Security made sure to assign a strong detail to this event.

She pulled away the scopes. Her gut clenched again then released. Something bugged her. It wouldn’t let go.

Pete, got a sec? She turned to another agent. As he began to walk over her com crackled to life.

Antez, meet the Senator’s vehicle, Senior Special Agent Michael Glume ordered.

Looking one more time at the scaffolding she responded.

Yes, sir.

Turning away she handed the binoculars to Special Agent Peter Tanner and pointed up to the distant rooftop, filling her co-worker in. Antez hustled off. He raised the lenses to his eyes. Spotting the ratty cage, he looked it up and down.

There’s netting on the front, mumbled to himself. Then he remembered how the Supervisory Special Agent threw water on Antez’s concerns. She was always worked up about something. He laughed a little and shook his head.

All the in-ear communication pieces lit up, announcing the approach of the dignitary’s entourage. The roof of Joe Louis Arena was entirely pushed from Tanner’s thoughts.

Around the promenade the black clothed men and women hurried to their positions. They were well trained. Each sifted focus constantly, observing locations, movement, and shadows. Vigilance was key to security.

Chapter 2

Special Agent Antez walked with brisk, clipped steps towards the receiving area, her short, dark, naturally curly hair bobbing slightly with the motion. Though small of frame she was fit and surprisingly strong.  Her dark-on-dark eyes seemed to look intensely into anyone she stared at. They could be a bit unsettling. She liked that.

But most men curiously remembered her mouth in particular – lips full, naturally rose colored, were pushed out ever-so-slightly by an overbite. It was the subtle things that often stayed in the admirer’s mind.

That is, until she talked.

Her general manner of speaking, more like a restrained shout, was as blunt and sharp as a butcher’s cleaver. She was the bureau’s definition of a no-nonsense, procedure following, rulebook-stuck-up-the-nose kind of an agent. And, she excelled at her job.

A train of sleek, dark vehicles pulled up to the curb. Even this close she couldn’t distinctly see through the tinted windows, but she had been instructed which handle to grab. Antez opened the door to the middle SUV. Out stepped US Senator Jocelyn Klock from Michigan. Klock was well into her second term, re-elected for her strong language regarding jobs and crime. She was also very forward on anti-terrorism policies. This drew the fire of many who instantly labeled her a hate-filled racist, and an anti-Islamic bigot.

She didn’t care.

You had to have a thick hide for this job, she was fond of saying, "and a set of horns."

The GM Promenade was a short distance towards the river from the main entrance to the hotel. The striped walkway leading from the Marriott lobby transected Atwater Street, led pedestrians through thick barriers, and onto the Plaza. On the concrete surface of the area was a dark silhouette of all the continents of the world, excluding the poles. Facing the towers, the Americas were to the left, Europe, Africa, and Asia to the right.

At the arrival of Senator Klock, guests with tickets issued forth from the hotel, crossed the street, and flowed through a gauntlet of security to the seating area just to the south of the artwork of countries.

Ten minutes, cut in over the com. The agents moved to their secondary positions. A podium draped in black was placed on the painting in the middle of the Atlantic. Klock had specifically instructed that she would not appear to be stepping on any country, but rather placed neutrally at sea.

After a wireless mic was affixed to the podium clip, a US, and a Michigan flag were placed beside the small speaking area. Spanning between the metal poles, a large picture of a local island with the words We Will Remember created a backdrop. Two small, powerful speakers were set discreetly in the northern and southern reaches of the ocean. A sound check was conducted as the final guests were seated.

Klock took her place and began.

There is in grieving, a certain art, a certain nuance of the soul presenting its deepest pain and longings. This is not a trivial perspective, but one, rather, that expresses the yet deeper love of citizens, neighbors, friends, and family. We, as a community are in mourning. She paused to adjust her glasses.  

"Six weeks ago, a terrible incident occurred on Belle Isle, just north of us on the river. Eighteen people were killed at a peaceful, religious rally at Erma Henderson Park, forty-two others were captured and taken by watercraft to the island. There they were subjected to the most heinous psychological and physical tortures imaginable. Fifteen men of the captives were brutally tortured, maimed, then killed. Another eleven men and women were crucified, seven others beheaded. Of the twenty-three females captured all were raped. Seven of those were girls under the age of fifteen. Nine survivors were rescued by a joint operation involving local police task forces, the NSA, the FBI, and the Coast Guard.

We grieved at the dedication of The Belle Isle Memorial. We mourned at the park for the shooting victims. But why are we here today?"

Klock paused, glancing up into the fresh, morning sky.

To the victims, those who have suffered, and those who had their lives cut short, know that we will not forget – we will remember. The citizens of this state are also here to tell the cowards who attacked our people that we will not stop living our lives, we will not run away and hide.

Senator Klock stood in the middle of a painted world. To her right were the shining towers of the Renaissance Center, a symbol of newness and expectancy for a struggling city. To her left was the living ribbon of sun-silvered water, warming in the blossoming Spring. Out of the corner of her eye, the State Senator saw a young couple, leisurely strolling hand-in-hand on the Detroit Riverwalk. Far above them feathered a thin cloud, wrung fresh and light from the midnight storm.

There was hope for her people. She would not surrender.

With determination, her voice moved into the practiced cadence of a public figure, tuned to the width and depth of their plans. Funds were promised, security measures spoken of, and assurances of justice were rolled out. Sincerity, an ardent fuel for passion, flamed her rhetoric with truth – to the best of her ability she would deliver.

The work of terror, Klock said emphatically, "is to strike a paralyzing fear and dismay into the heart of its victims. We must take courage. We must never give in. They trust that we will not have the stomach to fight. They count on us losing heart and throwing up our hands. But we are not that people, no, we are not that nation. And we, she drew a horizontal circle in the air, will never surrender. The people of the great city of Detroit are sending a message: ‘We are not afraid!’"

Clapping and shouts rose from the audience. Some stood to their feet. They let the terrorists know they would not be cowed!

But high above and far behind them, a metal, boat-tailed emissary was destined for its mission. It carried an exposition of death. The appointed courier held in its satchel the determination of those who commissioned it.

It too sent a message.

The muted report and hidden flash chased the bullet down the barrel. Relative to the cosmos in which they spin, projectiles, like humans, have short, punctuated lives. And, like men, their purpose can range from mundanity to a profound impact of cause and effect. Over the span of their lives, such men and women ask themselves whether they are the hands of justice or evil in the world. Do their lives matter?

At this precise moment, if one drew a breath and held it, there would be little space to contemplate the contrast of these worlds. Klock didn’t have to think about it – there was America, and those who wanted to destroy it. Period. While most politicians around her were loath, either by calculation or cowardice, to name the antagonists of this city as Islamic Terrorists, Klock at least had the backbone to throw a straight punch.

As for the terrorists themselves, they were not in the least offended by whatever name the Western devils threw at them. For the sake of their cause, they were as happy to kill the co-exist crowd in the suburbs as they were to execute outspoken leaders. And, today, they had a very public figure to make a point with.

The deadly communique, untroubled by all these musings of existence, obediently thrust from the muzzle toward its intended target. Being but the plume de la mort, and its medium the red ink of an enemy’s life, brevity was entirely its elegance.

With a small fwip sound the back of the Senator’s head blew apart like a Tannerite pumpkin. A collective scream and involuntary duck-dodge-run took over the crowd. Panic electrified the entire area.

Klock stood for a few seconds, rooted in place, mouth open in speech. Slowly, like a stick of lumber she fell, full, hard, and square onto her back.

Aides covered dignitaries. The Senator’s detail surrounded her, using the podium as a shield. These unnecessary duties were done precisely because they were duties, though they were pointless. Having been faithfully delivered, the high-powered missive said all it was meant to say.

A nearly perfect pattern of dark matter and wet, red spray was shot upon the fabric backdrop. Below this, a growing tide of crimson washed slowly from the speaker’s skull into the empty, concrete ocean flowing between the painted masses of land.

Somewhere from the nearby streets several sirens wailed. Continuing chaos was stirred up in the late Detroit morning, on the peaceful stretch between the hopeful towers and a silvery river face. Violent death, fear, and yes, terror had lurked these weeks in the hearts and minds of this city’s people.

And, it was still here.

Chapter 3

It took seconds for them to pack up. Rolling out of the rough scaffolding they dropped to the ground. The two men crawled low and fast across the coarse material toward a steel, exit door.

Asan, my brother, Sidi said in his native Arabic, you should be ashamed of yourself.

Oh? Why? the shooter replied, a smile on his bearded face.

Brother, Sidi said, you hit her perfectly in the head – and from a downward angle. Sidi eyed his brother with admiration and swore. Ah, what a shot!

Then what is the shame? Asan looked at his sibling. He knew something was coming.

Sidi paused